


well, i've been holding on tonight

by makapedia



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Confessions, Death City is fucking scene as shit man, F/M, Pining, Prom, SoMa Week 2017, Tumblr Prompt, mcr references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/makapedia/pseuds/makapedia
Summary: They're partners, and partners go to prom together. It's normal. Or their normal, anyway.





	well, i've been holding on tonight

"What about this one?"

It's black. He likes black. Especially likes black on _her_ ; it reminds him of private piano concerts, the white of her ankles, the buckles of sleek kitten heels catching the gold of his soul's light. Things that make him clam up a little, make it harder for him to swallow.

It's _black,_ with halter straps, and as she spins it around, admiring the swish of the skirt, he realizes the back is bare, too. Such a low, low cut would certainly expose the strength of her muscles, encase her shoulderblades, and Soul stops that thought in its tracks before it has the chance to gain traction. It would suit his meister, he thinks instead. Would certainly suit his particular taste in aesthetics, too.

"It's nice," he says narrowly. "Might have to get it hemmed, though."

She bites her lip and instead holds the dress up to him. The fabric brushes against him, reaches to just above his own ankles. "Why is the world catered to tall people?"

"Get taller."

He probably deserves the resulting slap to his shoulder. It's quick, and certainly not hard enough to hurt him or leave a mark - his meister is fiesty, not abusive, and though sometimes he thinks he'd like it if she left her mark on him, she's never pinched him hard enough to do so. A shame, really. There's a certain, odd part of him that sort of purrs at the thought of wearing a brand of sorts, for her - but he supposes he already sort of has one, stitching down his chest, and he swallows thickly and swats the thought away.

"I'm still going to get it," she says, matter-of-factly, hugging the fabric to her chest. Out of habit, he reaches after her, lifting the tail end of the dress to keep it from dragging on the floor. He is her partner, Soul, and he lives to aid, thrives when filling in the gaps of her short sightedness. "Hey!"

"Gotcha covered."

She presses her lips together, brows furrowed. "I can do it myself."

"You're dusting the floor for them, Maka. Don't give away free labor, idiot."

" _Idiot!_ " Ah, he knows this expression. Soul Evans is officially cruising for a bruising, and she's adorable with that irritated little pout on her face. "Is that any way to speak to your prom date, mister?"

There's a flutter in his chest, and Soul presses his lips together and struggles for a moment to smother the feeling. Stupid. It's sort of… ticklish. An itch he can't seem to scratch.

"We're partners," he deadpans, because it's true, and the best comeback he has for that bullet aimed straight for his heart. He opens and closes his mouth, teetering, words long left neglected suddenly threatening to boil over.

They're _partners,_ in every sense of the word but that one, he thinks, dropping the hem of the dress. She spins around, huffing, pigtails whipping and he's left rubbing a palm to his chest, nursing the _something_ threatening to shred him to pieces, bit by bit. It's not the first time he's been left speechless by the feeling, but it _is_ the first time it's felt quite so paramount. Stifling, even, like there's something trapped inside him, something, for once, that isn't a giggling, malicious little imp.

It certainly binds just as thoroughly, though. He stumbles after her, finally, hands shoved in his pockets. Her neck's so pale, and the wispy baby hair that's escaped her characteristic twintails makes him bite his lip. It's instinct, to reach out and brush it away, to want to lean down and press his lips to the freckled, white skin there, left bare.

They're partners, he thinks, hands clenching in his pockets. They're _partners,_ and this is normal.

.

'Normal' is relative for them.

He stands in their living room, fiddling with his skull cufflinks, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot while their sexy magical cat turned roommate shuttles around the apartment, wielding mascara wands and lipsticks. Faintly, he hears Blair cooing little snippets of things like "oh, Kitten, please!" and "ooooh, scythe boy is so lucky!" and then he's standing in the middle of the room blushing like a damn fool.

Get it _together._ Soul scrubs at his face and wonders if he should go sneak some of Blair's stash of foundation, just to mute the pink burning across his cheeks.

"Play nice in there," he calls, to grasp at some sense of control, but his own voice sounds tight and strained to him. He clears his throat, then tries again. "She doesn't need any makeup, Blair."

Catmom pokes her head out into the hall and smiles, all Cheshire. "Does Scythe-Boy think Kitten's perfect just the way she is?"

What a spectacular backfire. He balks, sputtering, promptly dropping his self-proclaimed oodles of cool everywhere. He crosses his arms across his chest. "We're going to be late," he says defensively, and that scratching something is back once again. It makes his fingers itch. Makes him want to storm down the hall and dive bomb into his mattress and blast loud music until he feels sound in his own skin again-

Before he's even got the chance, Maka's shoving her way past their roommate, adequately flustered and distractingly done up. Her hair's all tied up in this intricate knot, eyes rimmed with dark, dark eyeliner, lips painted just as black. He's seen her in make up before, of course, but always nudes and baby pinks, quick swipes of Claire's sparkle lipglosses and cheap drugstore mascara, but this look is startling. Mature, almost.

And even though she definitely looks like a My Chemical Romance groupie, her eyes have never looked greener.

So green. Ugh. They pop, for fuck's sake. He's stupid and dry-mouthed and he can't stop staring. Blasting music wouldn't even help. ( _Buuuuurning on, just like a match, you strike to incineraaaate…)_

"Kitten!" Blair whines, stomping her feet. "Blair was going to get his reaction on video, big brother Evans asked for it and everything-"

"He knows what I look like, Blair, we live together!"

"But this is special!" she sighs dreamily, leaning over to fluff her bangs. It's strange, but she almost looks maternal, fretting over her tiny scene queen daughter, and Soul wishes he didn't find it adorable. "Prom might be weird for you Death Children, but it's a big deal, in most places. It's romantic, Kitten!"

Even under her white foundation, her blush still bleeds through. "It's not weird!"

And she sets her sights on him. Such dark lashes, shrouding those bright eyes of hers. She should look a corpse, with that particular shade of pasty white meticulously blended on her face, but this is their normal, he thinks, ambling forward, corsage of wilted flowers in hand. She blinks, and his heart is in his throat and her hand in his, and her wrist is so thin and delicate, despite the strength in her bare shoulders, despite the heat in her gaze.

Soul slips the corsage onto her wrist and says, very seriously, "If we were anywhere else, I'd be giving you real flowers."

Her nose wrinkles. "But they'd die eventually anyway, wouldn't they? What's the point?"

She can't read between his lines. He laugh-sighs and bumps her forehead with his knuckles in a painfully brotherly manner. Once a Death Child, always a Death Child, he thinks, with a sort of haunting fondness. Maybe he's lived here too long, in this apartment, in this city, with her, if her raccoon eyes don't turn him off.

"Most girls don't like dressing up in dead things, I guess." Soul shrugs, then shoves his hands back into his pockets. Safe. Comfort zone. His knuckles and fingers and entire being still burn from touching her delicate wrists and goth-painted forehead.

That ache ramps up to 11 as she bites back a smile and touches the dried roses. "I like the thorns," Maka admits, looking up at him through her lashes. Even in heels, she's still a tiny thing, but it's him that's weak; one well-aimed, wide-eyed stare renders him absolutely stupid, and he's left floundering, sucking in a breath as she pins his own set of dead flowers to his good suit.

.

He dances with her, because she's pretty tonight and sorta-kinda fits his secret aesthetic and it makes him feel gracious. She smiles the entire night as he twirls her around to melancholic violins and electric guitars and fucking _Bring Me To Life_ , until the lights have begun to brighten and Tsubaki is peeling her partner from the spiked punch bowl.

It's sweltering in that room. Too many bodies, too much social interaction, and he's feeling tapped out as Maka yawns and rubs her eyes. Her eyeliner's begun to melt, smudging, and he reaches out with a thumb to brush away her mess.

Her lashes flutter and tickle him. One second, then two. Her lips are so dark, still so pristinely painted, and Soul really rather sort of likes black.

That pull in his chest tugs, tugs, tugs, and he turns and flees, before he finally snaps and something slips out and Maka's never looked prettier, watching him with those big doe eyes of hers. It hurts, in that brief, burning moment she'd stared at him, lips parted, breath hitched. It hurts, wanting to hold her, wanting to spin her around and cup her jaw in his hands and just give in, god, what the fuck.

It's cooler outside. Easier to breathe. He takes big, desperate gulps, heart slamming in his chest. Keep it together, he thinks, for the umpteenth time tonight. Gotta keep it together.

"-oul? Soul!"

He grinds his palms against his eyes and groans.

"Soul," Maka says, and she's got a hand on his back, rubbing. "Hey, is everything okay? You just- you flew like a bat out of hell out of there-"

"Hot," he squawks. "Had to… ugh."

She hums, nodding, then drops to sit on the steps. She's not particularly ladylike in the way she handles herself, plopping down so unceremoniously. She fiddles with her corsage, flaking dead flowers that leave fallout on her dark dress. From here, he can see the perfect, slender line of her back, pale and glowing in the torchlight, can see the way her muscles move as she sighs and leans over to slip off her heels. He knows every scar that lines her, every knick and scratch, and it doesn't even marr her beauty a little bit.

Soul swallows thickly. It's not going away, whatever this is. It's only getting worse.

"Yeah," she says after a few moments, rubbing the arch of her foot. "I know what you mean. Lots of people in there, and body heat, and no amount of deodorant will ever keep Black*Star's stank in check."

He stumbles over to her on stiff legs and drops to sit, too. Her toes wiggle in the dim light, painted baby pink. Adorable. "Sorry."

She shrugs. "For what? I've monopolized your entire night. You're allowed to escape, you know. You're not obligated to hang out with me the whole time."

She doesn't know. He swallows again, fists clenching on his knees. "No, it's… I don't mind spending time with you. Like this. I'm your _date,_ you know."

"But we're partners."

He chokes on his breath. _In. Out. In again._ He can't- shot right through the heart, and he's left reeling, head snapping over to gawk at her and the way she bites her lip. He can see the line where black becomes pink, where the lipsticks stops, where this theatrical mask ends and where his Maka begins again. They're partners, but he knows every freckle hidden beneath layers of white makeup, knows where her bravado of bravery ends and the abandoned daughter begins.

She doesn't even flinch. Doesn't blink, barely moves. "We're _partners,_ " she repeats, believably fearless. "You said so yourself, remember?"

Soul's unsure if he's going to cry or throw up. Or scream. Probably scream. "That's not…" He pauses, collecting himself, piecing together the courage he's watched her don like armor time and time again. "You're not an obligation, Maka. I'd still be your date even if I _wasn't_ your weapon."

It's not fair, he thinks, that Blair's painted her so thoroughly. He wants to see her crack, wants to see her pink a little more, wants to know how she's feeling, too. Because he feels like he's about to explode, about to spontaneously combust and catch aflame - he's sure he's blushing, not at all the ladykiller _cool guy_ he likes to think he is.

She opens her mouth. Closes it, then looks down at her lap, bashfully picking at her corsage. "But I am your partner, though," she asks quietly, plucking wilted, dried petals from her flowers, faded roses and the likes, "right?"

The only partner he'll ever have. He nods, and she still plucks away, eyes glued to her lap. Hrrgh. "Yeah," he finally admits, fists loosening, hands facing palm-up to the sky, bleeding moon and all. What a terribly strange normal they live, alone in the dark, unable to spit it out, even after all this time. "You're more than that. You're…. you know."

She glances over, finally. Smudged eyeliner and all. Impeccable black lips.

_You know._

"My best friend," he finishes, feeling lightheaded and silly, heart quite literally slamming in his chest. It's hard, thinking of much else but how badly he wishes he were brave enough to lean over and kiss her, smudge her lipstick a little, too. Paint his lips a deathly black, too, so that he too may be able to join this bizarre, macabre life she lives.

But he can't. The sentiment is too big, the leap too large. He offers a hand to her instead, open, and Maka drops plucked rose petals to lace her fingers between his. She's warm, and nothing like the corpse she's tried to masquerade - she's warm, and he thinks he might float away, if he didn't have her to hold him down.

She squeezes his hand. He squeezes back.

"Yeah," says Maka, looking peculiarly misty-eyed. A painted porcelain doll, fresh from the Black Parade. "You too, Soul."

Their 'normal' is relative. His hand is so fucking clammy and she doesn't even chastise him for it. Hers are calloused and scarred from years of wielding him and it only makes him want to cling onto her more.

God, he's in deep.

"You know," Maka says, blinking up at the stars. "The good thing about smudged eyeliner is that nobody can tell when you've begun sweating it off. It always looks messy. it's supposed to look messy."

He snorts. Works up the balls to bring her hand to his lips and kiss her knuckles, very gently. "Okay, Billie Joe."

"... Who?"

"Lead singer of Green Day. God, Maka, if you're gonna dress like a scene kid at least know your stuff. You're embarrassing me here."

He sort of deserves that kick, too. Oh well. Worth it, to see her smile.


End file.
